Of Arcadian steel,
this hard moorland. A
bleak back country
kind of beauty,
where I might escape
the weight of empty voices.
Jostled and devoured
by a sense of common learning.
Snapped memories piled up,
made the life I recognised
to be my own.
Competing with skylark’s hook
and silent thrum of insects feet,
a brook that bears me on.
Roads, small as rivers meander.
I traverse the tarmac flow.
I believe I thought this place
and fashioned its being.
As if it could mend me
and patch my canvas
with a sky blue peace.
In my pack, notebook
pen and chewing pencils,
attest to my sadness.
So I sleep and dream
until breakfast time, at
night’s end.
©️ Dai Fry 28th April 2020.